---

George Herbert - The Bag
Work rating: Low

Away despair; my gracious Lord doth heare,
     Though windes and waves assault my keel,
     He doth preserve it: he doth steer,
     Ev`n when the boat seems most to reel.
     Storms are the triumph of his art:
Well may he close his eyes, but not his heart.

Hast thou not heard, that my Lord Jesus died?
     Then let me tell thee a strange storie.
     The God of power, as he did ride
     In his majestick robes of glorie,
     Resolv`d to light; and so one day
He did descend, undressing all the way.

The starres his tire of light and rings obtain`d,
     The cloud his bow, the fire his spear,
     The sky his azure mantle gain`d.
     And when they ask`d, what he would wear;
     He smil`d, and said as he did go,
He had new clothes a making here below. 

When he was come, as travellers are wont,
     He did repair unto an inne.
     Both then, and after, many a brunt 
     He did endure to cancell sinne:
     And having giv`n the rest before,
Here he gave up his life to pay our score.

But as he was returning, there came one
     That ran upon him with a spear.
     He, who came hither all alone,
     Bringing nor man, nor arms, nor fear,
     Receiv`d the blow upon his side,
And straight he turn`d, and to his brethren cry`d,

If ye have any thing to send or write,
     (I have no bag, but here is room)
     Unto my Father`s hands and sight
     (Beleeve me) it shall safely come.
     That I shall minde, what you impart;
Look, you may put it very neare my heart.

Or if hereafter any of my friends
     Will use me in this kinde, the doore
     Shall still be open; what he sends
     I will present, and somewhat more,
     Not to his hurt.  Sighs will convey 
Anything to me.  Heark despair, away.
Source
The script ran 0.004 seconds.